


Multifandom Genderswap Ficlets

by grim_lupine



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Newsies (1992), Road to El Dorado (2000), Social Network (2010), Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always the Opposite Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Hero Worship, Marriage Proposal, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I asked for some genderswap prompts on my tumblr and wrote a few ficlets, just thought I'd throw them up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multifandom Genderswap Ficlets

-

\--

 **Suits: always-a-girl!Harvey/Mike**

Mike is in love with Harva Specter, the deservedly arrogant curl of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrow, the confident click of her heels and the way she looks when she is trying to pretend she doesn’t care. He loves the way she challenges him to do better and better and better until there is nothing more to be done; the way she looks him up and down when he’s done well and says, rich purr in her voice, “ _Good_ boy”; he loves the sleek knot of her hair, coming down in waves when it’s only the two of them working in her office at night, because very few people are allowed to see her at less than perfect, and he is one of them. Harva drives him crazy sometimes because she expects so much and hides herself so well, but he loves that too because it’s a challenge, because it’s what he _needs_ ; he knows what a life of mediocrity does to him, the choices he makes when there’s nothing to keep him sharp, and no one in their right mind could call Harva Specter mediocre.

He loves her when she kisses him slow and when she kisses him vicious, when she tells him to get on his knees and put his mouth to good use, when she deigns to let him steal her breakfast in the morning and when she walls her coffee behind her hands like she’ll stab him if he tries it; Harva hasn’t said she loves him, yet, but Mike will angle for it shamelessly until she does, because every once in a while and on his birthday she decides to give into him, and Mike doesn’t need the words when the sentiment is clearly there but sometimes he likes to push her too.

Harva stirs in bed, flashing a bare curve of shoulder, absurdly tangled hair proving her human, and Mike is in love with the days he has had with her and the days he is having and the days that are yet to come, and looking at her, none of that is a surprise.

It was inevitable from the start.

 **Newsies: always-a-girl!Les  + always-a-girl!Jack, hero-worship**

Jack is like no other girl Lea has ever met.

There’s her name, for start—might be odd to go around with a boy’s name, she says, but it’s all she’s ever gone by and all she ever will go by, and she’ll hit anyone who calls her Jackie, y’hear?

Lea hears.

Sarah’s her older sister and Lea loves her, knows that Sarah’s strong and brilliant in quiet and unexpected ways, but Jack is something—something _other_. Something wild and untamed. She spins stories like lace and cobwebs, struts like no girl would, amiably scandalizes David until he forgets to look mature; one day she takes Lea aside and teaches her how to whistle, and ruffles Lea’s hair when she learns.

“You’re a good kid,” Jack tells her very seriously once, before her mouth twists a little wryly and she continues, “Not like me. I’ve never been good at being—well, _good_.”

 _If I could be anything like you,_ Lea thinks, _‘good’ wouldn’t matter one bit._

 **Social Network: always-a-girl!Eduardo/Mark**

For most of her life, Eduarda has felt as if things are happening to her, as if she is simply an observer in her own life, living by her father’s rules in a gilded cage. She does as she’s told, never goes out looking less than her best, studies hard, doesn’t cause trouble, succeeds and exceeds but ultimately concedes.

When she’s around Mark, it’s different. Mark makes her want to _do_ things. He makes her want to take, create, say ‘fuck you and your rules and this life I am living’, break free of her half-life and _be_. Eduarda was never really reckless until she met Mark, and she finds herself growing addicted to the taste of it, absorbing the don’t-care shrug of Mark’s shoulders and his casual disregard for the edicts she has carved under her skin, until she has shaken together her own sensibility and his wildness and turned it into a better way to live her life.

With Mark, she will help create a company and fight him over it armed with lawyers and memories, will give her best friend 19,000 dollars and take it from him in a fit of hurt and fury, will break the embodiment of his life’s passion inches from his face and, years later, will see him and find her anger gone, will decide to meet him on her own terms, will hear his apologies and offer her own, will take him to bed, will stay.

Eduarda has lost her passivity, and that is her own triumph, but she has Mark’s example to thank for making her believe she _could._

They’ve been together for a few years now, and Mark has started looking kind of twitchy lately, in addition to staring at Eduarda’s hands a lot and uncomfortably telling her that he loves her at random moments, and—Eduarda is not actually an idiot, okay. Not to mention she’s had more than a few thoughts in this direction herself.

Maybe it’s mischief or contrariness or the desire to turn Mark on his head like he needs once in a while, or maybe it’s that she wants to have this be _hers_ ; whatever it is, it has her shopping one afternoon before she comes home and cooks dinner for both of them, and before dessert, she reaches into her purse and finds the ring box, sets it in front of Mark and watches his eyes go wide.

“I beat you,” Eduarda says, grinning giddily, and maybe she should be nervous, but she isn’t, because Mark—Mark is lighting up, reaching out to touch the ring, and he _likes_ it when she does shit like this.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t supposed to be a competition,” Mark says, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he looks soft, happy.

“You like the things that are,” Eduarda says with all the certainty that comes with amassing years of Mark-knowledge. And then, because the words are crystallized and sweet on her tongue, waiting to come out, she pulls the ring from the box and asks, “Marry me?”

“Oh, well, let me think about it for a while,” Mark says, and practically shoves his finger into the ring before Eduarda can slide it on for him.

Eduarda can’t decide between beaming and kissing him, so she tries to do both at once; it’s messy and uncoordinated, and utterly perfect. She settles in Mark’s lap and whispers against his mouth, “I love you,” and his hand on her waist is tender and his mouth is sweet and giving, with a little bite. His tongue touching hers tells her he loves her too.

She wanted to ask Mark because she was too scared to ask him for so many things, before, and the ring on his finger digging into her back reminds her that she’s not scared anymore.

 **Narnia: always-a-girl!Edmund + Peter + Susan + Lucy; velvet, ribbons and shadows**

Susan wears velvet as a gift from Peter, rich red, soft to the touch like moss and a whispered breath. She looks impossibly regal, though that is not difficult—anyone would know her for a queen whether she wore dresses or tattered rags. In velvet, Susan holds court and settles disputes with ease, the Gentle queen with her ready words and her soothing disposition, her grasp of people and how to make them _listen_. She looks sweet and soft, until the moment she proves she isn’t: silk over iron.

Velvet that red never shows the stain of blood.

*

On Lucy’s birthday, Peter gives her a dagger and ties four ribbons around the hilt. His dichotomous Lucy laughs, flips the dagger end-over-end, sheaths it at her waist, and weaves the ribbons deftly into her hair. Over the following months, Peter sees those ribbons in many places: tying two of Susan’s fingers together when she is supposed to be resting them and is not especially inclined to listen; tickling Edlyn’s face as she sleeps, until Edlyn wakes, growls, bats at them and tackles a squealing Lucy into the ground; pulling Lucy’s hair back and out of the way as she works, elbow-deep in blood and aware only of her patient, face set seriously but ready to break into a comforting smile.

When Peter goes to war, Lucy pulls one ribbon from the end of her braid and ties it around Peter’s arm, tells him with her mouth set firmly, “For luck.”

It’s all the luck Peter will ever need.

*

For Edlyn—who Peter has learned and learned until he knows her like no one else could, because he knows now the consequences of dismissing her in ignorance—Peter finds her a cloak, black as night, soft and fine to the touch, but unexpectedly warm. Warm enough to keep out any chill that might threaten her bones, seduce her mind into remembering the icy touch of winter. Edlyn is a woman grown, independent and strong-willed like all his beloved sisters (though no one does stubbornness quite like Edlyn), but when she buries her hands in black cloth and grins up at him, all of a sudden he sees in her the brightly happy five-year-old from his memory, the little girl who had not yet learned to guard herself and take refuge in sullenness and solitude and a sharp tongue.

“You’ve done well with gifts this year, Peter,” Edlyn says slyly, swinging the cloak around her shoulders and fastening the clasp in front.

“I’m a fast learner,” Peter says dryly. “And it certainly helps that my sisters are especially vocal when I’ve done something wrong.”

Edlyn grins and pulls the hood up; she looks as if she has wrapped herself in shadows, immersed herself in the night she loves so dearly. Peter’s middle sister is at home in the shadows, with secrets and intrigues, wins wars decisively without ever drawing a blade; she is difficult and makes Peter want to tear his own hair out more often than not, but that only makes the kiss she plants on his cheek all the more gratifying.

*

Peter’s greatest gifts are his three sisters, and that is something that can never be surpassed.

 **Road to El Dorado: always-a-girl!Miguel/Tulio**

Tulio dashes down the street, three guards stomping after him, and darts into an alleyway when he hears an all-too-familiar, “ _Psst_.”

Miguela steps out of the shadows and grins at him, bright-eyed and deceptively innocent. “Come here,” she whispers, and when Tulio steps forward, she swings them around so that she’s backing him up against a wall, standing on tiptoe to nuzzle the side of his face. Tulio hears footsteps stop briefly outside the mouth of the alleyway, realizes that all they’ll see is the long golden fall of Miguela’s hair and think they’ve stumbled across two lovers stealing a moment to whisper sweet nothings to each other.

Miguela puts her mouth against Tulio’s ear, but if what comes out of her mouth could be considered sweet nothings, they’d be the strangest Tulio’s ever heard. “That was very nicely done,” she whispers softly, mouth warm and distracting. “The window didn’t give you too much trouble, then?”

“I hate you,” he hisses, barely audible, not even convincing to his own ears. “Why do your plans always involve me running for my life while you watch? I get to plan from now on. All the plans. Me.”

“A little exercise is good for you,” she replies brightly, pulls back and checks that the guards are gone. Her absence makes Tulio abruptly cold. “What _was_ it he had on him?” she asks, and Tulio finally looks at the paper he tucked away that their mark had been guarding so jealously.

Unrolling it does not leave him much more enlightened. “It’s a map,” he says flatly.

“A _map_ ,” Miguela’s voice comes from behind him as she looks over his shoulder, and suddenly, Tulio can see how very, very doomed he is.

“Oh, no—” he starts, waving his hands, map and all, to stop her before she can begin; but it’s no use: there’s a fervor that Tulio knows too well in her luminous green eyes, the familiar look of adventure-fever lighting her up, and Tulio—

“Not with the _face_ ,” he groans, because Tulio is fully aware of his own abilities, and telling Miguela ‘no’ has never been one of them.

In his dreams, Tulio sleeps with silver and gold all around him, swims in jewels, has enough that he’ll never want for _anything_ ; but sometimes, when Miguela smiles at him, he wonders if that isn’t all he’ll ever need.

\--

-


End file.
